I walk by this place -- Bonkers or Bumpers, depending on which sign you believe -- every day on my way home from work. Its doors are shuttered now, which is a shame because I'd gladly drop a few quarters in that Mortal Kombat cabinet still visible in the window to help keep the place afloat. Arcades and their bleep-blooping machines provided some of the formative venues for my childhood, and I miss them. They were places where, even if the floor plan changed for each one, everything remained comfortably familiar. Places where I felt I belonged.

Read more coin-operated nostalgia, after the break. -->

One of the first arcades I remember going to was located inside a Sears at South Coast Plaza, in Costa Mesa, CA. The management probably built it as a digital daycare, betting that moms and dads would buy more without a youngster at foot, complaining about being bored. On any given weekend you'd find the darkened room stuffed with kids fixated on glowing screens, every now and then plugging in another quarter doled out by obliging parents. The one game that I distinctly remember from that arcade is the original Street Fighter, which confused me to no end because I'd seen Street Fighter II and this looked nothing like that. It wasn't very good, either.

Once I'd gotten that taste of electronic bliss, I sought out machines wherever possible. That wasn't hard back then; arcade cabinets popped up pretty much anywhere store owners had an empty three square feet of space. I'd jump for joy if we had to take the cat to the vet, because the Pizza Hut next door had a pristine Street Fighter II machine. I'd suffer through a walk around Balboa Island because I knew it would end with a trip to the numerous arcades at the Fun Zone. I'd scarf down my food at Red Robin to be certain I'd have plenty of time with Pit Fighter and NBA Jam before my parents finished eating. They'd give me a few quarters each time, but the money didn't matter: once I ran out I'd just view the attract modes over and over again. NBA Jam in particular thrilled me because certain versions let you play a simple 3D tank game for free if you held the joysticks and buttons just so.

When I was about 13, my dad started working at an office across the street from the Laguna Hills Mall. In that mall, next to the food court, resided a glorious arcade named Tilt. Immediately I worked out a plan with my parents so that on Wednesdays, my mom dropped me off there after school and my dad picked me up on the way home from work. Sometimes I brought a friend along; mostly I went alone. In either case, the schedule once I arrived stayed constant: I headed straight to Tilt, where I'd blow through the five bucks or so I'd saved up, then spent the remaining time watching other kids play. I watched because that's how you learned to make your quarters last longer -- a good player could have ten kids crowded around him. We'd stand on tiptoes, angling to get the best view of both the screen and his hands, studying what he pressed, when he pressed it, so that we could employ the same moves and tricks the next time we felt the joystick in our fists. In time, I had the moves memorized for every character in Street Fighter II, Mortal Kombat, and Killer Instinct. I knew how to race as the police car in Cruis'n USA. I knew how to play as Bill Clinton in NBA Jam. I knew what to do when "Toasty!" appeared onscreen in Mortal Kombat. These tips and Easter eggs were like initiation rites. Knowing them meant you were a regular.

Occasionally my eyes got sore, and I would stagger out of Tilt, blinking in the harsh light of the food court. To relax them, I'd take a walk around the mall. Of course, by "walk around the mall," I mean that I either nipped over to browse the game selection at Software, Etc., or I sat down in the magazine section of B. Dalton and gorged myself on EGMs and Gamefans. In short, I breathed in bits, exhaled bytes. I dreamed in pixels. Games were my life.

Then I started high school. Games steadily fell to my peripheral vision as my friends and I focused on girls, girls, girls -- even if we had a hell of a time actually asking them out. My gaming habits so atrophied that by the time I headed off to college, I had sold all of my games and systems for a little quick cash. If I did happen by the rare arcade cabinet, like the lonely ones lurking in the local multiplex lobby, I wouldn't even turn my head.

Since then, I've gotten back into gaming (my junior-year college roommate's fault: he bought a used PS2 and somehow I ended up being the one who constantly played it), and I've dropped into a few of the remaining arcades in the area. It's invariably a depressing sight: a sea of Dance Dance Revolutions with few light-gun and racing games sprinkled in to break up the monotony. Looking over them, I'm literally pained -- I can feel it in my abdomen. But I have no right to complain. Back in the arcade's heyday, I turned my back on it. I abandoned it. I helped to kill it.

So I'm sorry, Bonkers, or Bumpers, or whatever you were called. I wasn't there when you needed me and now you're gone. But even though I betrayed you, you still do something important for me. I want to thank you for that. Thanks for leaving reminders of what you used to be: for keeping the crude Pac-Man art on the windows, for preserving the tattered awning promising amusement. Thanks for that fleeting glimpse of a beat-up Mortal Kombat cabinet. Because every time I walk by you, warm thoughts of a youth spent in arcades bubble up to the forefront of my mind. And then I smile.



[Find me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/bbretterson.]